The howl of the northbound train builds in crescendo as I stand on the ledge of the platform and hold the man above the tracks. He flails at me.

The Shikoku station is far from empty. Groaning bodies dot the otherwise hospital-clean platform. A group of fleshmodded Gothic Lolita girls watch us. They look on with inhumanly white faces and void-black eyes. Twig-thin arms down to their knees wave in the wind. He begs.

My _denkigami’s_ polite but insistent voice chirps in my head. _“Yamagata-sama orders the target to be eliminated.”_ Spirit of the fleshware machine in my brain, my _denkigami_ is a constant companion, and keeper of my leash.

The roar of the train grows louder, and bells ring in the station. The man pleads for his life. The train’s lights appear from around the around the corner.